Victim
by newportbeachbabe
Summary: Cage Fighting. Numbness. Power. Written for brandywine421's Hiatus Fic Challenge.


_Written for brandywine421's Hiatus Fic Challenge, I believe._

**Title**: Victim  
**Author**: newportbeachbabe  
**Rating**: T  
**Prompt**: I was given the song _Victim_ by Trapt. Song was for inspiration, but story did not have to relate to lyrics.  
**Summary**: Cage fighting. Numbness. Power.  
**Beta**: None. Wanna be mine?  
**Spoilers**: Anything seen in previews. If you don't know about cage fighting, then...I dunno. You do now.  
**Disclaimer**: Not mine. Duh.  
**A/N**: I came up with this idea like three weeks ago. And then I saw the premiere. It's not spoilery, so don't worry. But I swear I wrote this before I watched it.

* * *

Power had drawn him in. Fueled his anger. 

Given him a reason to keep on living.

He'd gone to the bar, like he did every night. And he'd seen Sandy there, waiting for him. Without a word, he'd left and driven far.

Far, far away from Newport.

This bar has flickering lights and dusty tabletops. He orders a whiskey, straight. He downs two before another man sits next to him.

With a sideways glance, Ryan looks him over.

"You win tonight, Ed?" the bartender asks, pouring the man a beer.

"You bet I did," Ed replies gruffly. "I beat that son-of-a-bitch to a pulp. They had to drag him from the cage."

Ryan listens intently and takes in Ed's battered hands oozing fresh blood, the scar over his left eyebrow.

The idea of power is sparked in his head.

He returns to the bar every night, and every night Ed comes in. Most nights he is victorious, telling tales of punks who were just barely alive.

Finally, he asks. "Where is this fight?" The words are rough and make his throat feel raw.

Ed turns his head and snorts. "You want in?"

Ryan shrugs and takes a sip of his drink.

"You believe this kid, Lee?" Ed says to the bartender.

Lee shakes his head, a smirk on his face.

"Kid, I just knocked someone twice your size senseless. You think you can handle it?"

His brain wants the power. Needs the power.

Two days later, Ryan is standing outside of a door. He can hear the rambunctious screams from the crowd inside.

Power. Power. Power.

His opponent is a big, burly man named Pogo. Tattoos cover his bulging arms.

Carefully, he wraps his hands in the pure white cloth. He can not wait to bloody the whiteness and get rid of its innocence.

He steps into the cage and faces Pogo. Pogo has anger in his eyes.

Ryan hasn't looked in the mirror in weeks, but he knows that his eyes show nothing.

He feels nothing.

The door is shut with a clang and the crowds close in. Pogo gets into a stance and Ryan follows suit.

He waits for Pogo to throw the first punch. He takes it as it knocks him backwards.

The power is overwhelming, flooding his heart and mind and body.

It is not control Ryan wants. It is pain.

--------------------

Ryan goes into the ring almost every night. His face is a constant collage of blues and purples. Blood has caked under his fingernails from washing off his cuts.

He never throws a punch. He never provokes the opponent, whether it is Pogo or Arnold or Tyrell.

Before, he had not felt anything. The numbness had been comforting for a while.

It had been a relief to not feel his heart breaking.

But the summer had come and gone and he was still numb. Tears sometimes leaked from his eyes, unbidden and unwanted. They always mystified him.

Why were there tears? There was no reason to be crying.

Numbness does not need release in the form of salty rivers.

After a while, he missed the fire. Missed the burn of aching muscles, the tight tension of a lonely heart, the sorrow and the pain.

Now, he feels somewhat alive.

With every blow, a small part of the pain returns. The smell of her perfume comes back, the color of her eyes shine before him.

After three weeks of getting his ass kicked, something odd happens.

Alejandro throws a punch to his chest, crumpling him to the ground.

Warmth spreads from his heart, replaced quickly with intense cold. He lies on the ground in wonder, marveling at the feeling.

Alejandro kicks him in the side and he instinctively curls to protect himself. His whole body aches like it's never ached before.

There's a feeling, somewhere deep inside him, that he can't name. It bubbles to the surface, just out of reach.

--------------------

The feeling returns the next night, when Ryan goes in the cage.

He brings in the crowds. Never have people seen someone survive such a beating and then come running back for more.

Obviously, Ryan thinks to himself, these people have never been numb.

He's facing Ed this time, first time so far. Ed looks at him and glances at the crowd, giving them a look that clearly says it is too easy.

Ryan's hands are wrapped in pure white cloth once more, the first time he's changed them since starting this thing.

The two face off and the crowd gets on its feet. They know what happens by now, know how it all goes down.

Except then Ryan throws the first punch, hitting Ed squarely in the jaw. He staggers backwards and Ryan hits him again.

And again and again and again.

The punches blend together and, after a while, Ryan realizes he's hitting more cage than Ed.

In one horrifying moment, he realizes what the feeling is.

It's anger.

--------------------

Ryan goes to her grave for the first time that night. His jeans are speckled with blood and his hands are swollen, but he feels the need.

It is time.

He stares at the grave and reads the simple words.

_Marissa Cooper. Beloved daughter, sister, and friend._

Ryan wants to grab a screwdriver and carve in one word:

**Victim**.

--------------------

Weeks later, Ryan is scheduled to fight again.

Since that fight with Ed, he has yet to lose.

Deliberately, he wraps the white cloth around his hands. But there is no desire to bloody it, no burning need to kill.

He is neither numb nor angry. He hurts, inside his heart.

It's a feeling he has been waiting to feel. Now that it's here, he can't accept it.

Such a neutral feeling, smack dab in the middle of the spectrum doesn't feel right.

The white cloth drops off his hand as the crowds' roars become louder and louder behind the door.

He walks away, grabbing his shirt and bag, ignoring the cheering.

He drives slowly and under the speed limit to a bar in Newport. Part of him hopes Sandy is there, but he's not.

He orders a whiskey, straight. He's hardly swallowed a sip when Sandy walks in.

Sandy orders two coffees, one black, one with sugar.

It's just enough to make his heart break completely.

And it's just enough to make him keep on living.


End file.
